


see america right

by orphan_account



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Drug Use, Infidelity, Lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, remember when tom called greg a total coke whore?, unedited ficlet thing because that is stuck in my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27398053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: a little hastily written ficlet about prague, because that episode lives in my head rent free.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	see america right

**Author's Note:**

> this is super unedited and in retrospect i’m not very fond of it, but uh, i’m too fond of greg in lingerie so i’m leaving it up to hopefully inspire more of this content. ily for reading!!

Tom is like the red wines he orders for Greg at dinner, unpronounceable, overwhelming to the palate, silky aftertaste sticking around well past its welcome. He spends too much on every meal. Greg is shocked the first time he sees the numbers scrawled next to the food that Tom orders, when he notices his appetizer costs more than what he spent in a week on groceries, when the bill comes and it’d buy him two full weeks at any youth hostel. It feels like an insult. But Shiv keeps taking trips to D.C., and Tom keeps texting to invite him out, and Greg stays at his beck and call, sits across the velvet tablecloths and learns about proper cutlery placement and bone marrow broth and gold-flecked desserts. It gets easier to force down food he doesn’t really like. Likewise, he’s not as bothered by Tom’s browbeating, the putdowns and pigtail pulling that used to throw him for a loop, leave him trailing behind and insecure. 

It’s not just the dinners. Suddenly Greg is being fitted for suits that Tom likes. He’s being sent watches and cufflinks and colognes. “You can’t buy good taste,” Tom tells him, straightening the burgundy tie he’d delivered in an espresso-black package, “but I can pick it out for you.” 

He never talks about how much things cost. It makes Greg wish he’d grown up as part of the family where excess was never excess, hard work never a precursor to owning something. 

He looks at how awful Tom is, how bitter and lonely and mean they _all_ are, and feels like he might have dodged a bullet there. 

The bachelor party is... Greg feels like even the wealthy elites couldn’t possibly enjoy sweatily mingling in a dark, dripping warehouse. It’s one of those things that’s only intriguing due to its manufactured exclusivity. He gets abandoned by most everyone in attendance the second they step off the shambling elevator, and when he tries to order a drink he gets ignored by the bartender. 

Or maybe he’s just bitter himself, feeling the very real sting of his whirlwind thing-that-isn’t-anything with Tom coming to a stop before it’s even left the station. He tracks down Kendall out of obligation, spends half his night wondering what ketamine is and how illegal it is to ask around about it, then ends up snorting lines with his formerly sober cousin egging him on.

When in Rome. 

It’s a fucking mess after that, is all Greg can say. Like, he feels _good_ , not even Tom’s rambling about cum can get him down; but he’s also got this sense of impending dread, like his heart’s beating so fast it’s going to flood his capillaries, surfeit and wasteful. He’s gorged himself on too much, he’s gone too far. He’s got Tom’s arm around his shoulder. 

Then he’s got Tom escorting him out of the tunnels, which puts a healthy fear of God and dark spaces into Greg’s overactive mind. Tom gets them both back to the home he shares with his fiancée. He’s stripping off Greg’s jacket and pressing him into the blanket that Shiv must have picked out, and Greg is lit up all over. His nerve endings are fried. Tom slings his knees over Greg’s hips, puts his palm on Greg’s chest and spreads his fingers out. Like Greg is just another thing that he happens to own. 

“We’re both adults, right?” 

He’s been stuck on this thread all night. Greg’s too strung out to be a good friend. “We’re... Tom, cheating on your fiancée isn’t really the adult thing to do,” he posits, the words feeling odd as he twists his mouth around them. 

“God, Greg, that is a huge goddamn assumption with some wild implications.” 

“Okay, but you’re, like, you’re saying that while you’re sitting in my lap,” he says. Tom rolls his eyes. 

“I got a girl to spit my cum back into my mouth tonight, Greg, and you’re sitting here and assuming that I need to crawl to you to get off,” he says, that ribbing tone that makes Greg’s skin crawl and itch for reasons he doesn’t want to think about. 

“She’s my cousin,” he protests, though there’s not much to argue against.

”She’s my fiancée,” Tom shoots back. So maybe they are arguing. He shifts his hips down, and Greg can’t help shivering when every movement sparks his nerves. “You’re just, just some coke whore that happens to work for me, and I don’t need you.” 

Greg tips his head back and refuses to, won’t fucking groan, even though being called names like that sets his spine straight and knocks his knees together. “Are you- you can just kiss me.” He’s on fire. It falls from his lips like lava, though nothing heats him up quite like Tom finally giving up and kissing him, their combined warmth stronger than napalm, even more explosive. 

It’s like kissing on coke is meant to feel. It’s better than Roman must feel making out with his own reflection, better than Kendall finally getting Logan’s attention. Greg can feel every muscle twitch when he lifts his arms to wrap them around Tom. Tom’s like Fireball, cinnamon searing his mouth and burning all the way down his throat. His teeth graze Greg’s lower lip, his fingers work on the buttons of Greg’s once-crisp white shirt, ironed the way Tom showed him. He can’t get his clothes off fast enough. 

Once he‘s resting on the precipice of ravaged, his cousin’s future husband draws back and slips his shirt over his shoulders. “Not too bad.” It’s like a Yelp review. Greg brings his hand to his lip, swipes his thumb over the swell in the middle. Tom climbs all the way off of him, sheds his clothes above the waist, throws a box on the bed next to Greg and looks at him expectantly.

Greg fumbles it a bit but manages to get the top off, raises his eyebrow at the contents and then at Tom. “Oh, that’s...” 

“They’re not Shiv’s,” Tom says. “Put them on.” 

God damn him, he does. He wriggles his overpriced slacks off and his boxers with them, concentrates hard on getting the black lace panties up around his hips with Tom’s eyes on him, pinning him like jaws around his neck. He’s not sure yet if he believes they don’t belong to his cousin, but they feel new and he kind of doubts that women’s undergarments would fit so snugly on his narrow, angled hips. 

He’s ridiculous. He pulls up the matching stockings. They hug the sharp planes on his thighs and he must look like too much, too long and lanky, coltish where Tom expects curves. 

Fuck, he’s leaking a wet patch into his panties. 

“Now we’re talking,” Tom says, appreciative and overbearing. Greg can’t take it. He can’t stand being used like this without even being touched. 

“Will you,” he starts, but Tom’s already back on the bed. Time moves in little still frames, like every time he blinks the world fixes itself to his liking. 

“I want to see you on your knees.” Tom admits it like it hurts him so Greg obeys, turning onto his flat stomach and folding his legs underneath him. “Greg, Cousin Greg, _fuck_.” 

“Tom, don’t,” he trails halfheartedly. “Tom, just, you can have me the way you want me.” 

Tom wants him with three fingers inside him, slippery with some lubricant from a small and sophisticated little tube. Tom wants to pull his panties to the side and fit inside him. Tom wants to card through his hair with his clean hand, tug a little, make him wince and snivel and above all, _burn_. He’s miserable and overtired and maybe coming down. Even so, he’s shaking, full, fucking ecstatic. It just gets better when Tom spits _slut_ in his ear and makes him own it. 

He’s on unsteady elbows, coked out in his cousin’s apartment while he lets her betrothed fuck him. Is there another word that suits him better? He doesn’t know what he should say, doesn’t have a smooth, aggressive tongue, so he whines and comes, hot against his rapidly cooling skin and the intricate lace of the panties he’s just ruined. 

“Fuck, I was going to give those to Shiv,” Tom hisses. He snickers when Greg tenses up against him. “Lighten up, I’m joking.” 

Tom’s still heavy and hard inside him. It’s bordering on uncomfortable and Greg definitely isn’t high enough for his body to enjoy every site where skin touches skin, but when his boss digs his nails into his thighs and spills inside him he moans anyways, despite himself and the fucked up thing he’s done tonight. 

It must be five in the morning. It’ll just be another day where Tom spends more on Greg than he does on his life partner. Another day where Greg leeches off a family that can’t even tell he’s a parasite, doesn’t care much either way. 

“You can stay over, I guess.” Tom’s pulled out and Greg’s cleaned up and borrowed a pair of joggers. They’re too small- they ride up his ankles and stretch across his crotch. He tries to stuff his panties in the laundry hamper and Tom calls him an idiot, folds them up and puts them back in the box. “We can get rid of them in the morning.” The real morning, when Greg will be sick with the nausea of knowing better and still doing wrong. 

He settles on Shiv’s side of the bed. Tom drifts close, hand on Greg’s hip. 

It’s surprisingly easy to sleep in the mess they’ve made. 


End file.
